


The Ardent Shepherdess

by Charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Kiss, Strangers to Lovers, The Wolf and his Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: She met the wolf when he scattered her sheep. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat on horseback to cut her flock and worry her dogs.The Wild Wolf out hunting meets a girl herding sheep and takes her home to Winterfell - the rest... fate, love, history... the gods know only one thing: a kiss can change the course of keep and kingdom.





	The Ardent Shepherdess

She met the wolf when he scattered her sheep. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat on horseback to cut her flock and worry her dogs. _A brute and a bastard_ , she thought to watch him. _A bully and a beast_ … He was all of those – and none of them. He circled her on his hunting horse and there was no menace in him: he laughed. A crack of white behind a beard of black.

The world was soft-fallen snow and bare ironwood trees; his laugh cut them all in shades of sunlight. There was half a score of men waiting for him amongst the black fringes of the wood – but he lingered at the centre of the swell of scattered sheep and sat his horse to stare down at her.

“You wolf,” she charged, her voice a crack of ice in a world of snow. “Scattered sheep and a pinfold half a league away. What will I sell to buy my bread?”

“Thirty sheep I’ll buy from you,” he shouted, his voice a rich smoke of delight. “Thirty sheep for just one kiss.”

“I’ll keep sheep and kisses both,” she returned, pointing the hardwood crook at him. “Keep them well away from wolves like you.”

“Hunger draws the wolf from the wood,” he called as he turned the horse beneath him. “The ardent shepherdess and her lambs are lucky this wolf’s already fed.” He cocked his head and flashed white teeth in a grin. “He would see her safe to winter town – her and the sheep he scattered.”

So it was: the wolf and the shepherdess rode through soft-fallen snow and past bare ironwood trees, cutting the path well-trod to the heart of the north.

* * *

She met Brandon Stark a sennight after he scattered her sheep. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat the high-raftered hall of Winterfell. _A wolf and a wild-man_ , she thought to watch him. _As huge here as he was cutting my flock and worrying my dogs_ … True it was: a wolf that walked the halls of men. He laughed, a crack of white behind a beard of black.

The world was woodsmoke and honey-mead; his laugh cut it all in shades of fireflame. A score of men hung around him at the lord’s dais – but he pushed through them all and circled her where she stood lost as a lamb.

“You wolf,” she said, her voice a murmur faint as song. “My hardwood crook is gone and they give me mead to pour in its place. How will I drive my sheep to market?”

“A hardwood crook I’ll give to you,” he replied, his voice a soft smoke of delight. “A hardwood crook for just one kiss.”

“I’ll keep mead-jug and kisses both,” she said, but her rich brown eyes were laughing. “Keep them well away from wolves like you.”

“Hunger draws the wolf from the wood,” he whispered as he took the mead-jug from her hands. “The ardent shepherdess would do well to know this wolf has not yet fed.” He cocked his head and flashed her a white grin, lapped his lower lip with his pink tongue. “Would wolf and lamb return to the wood to fill their bellies?”

So it was: the wolf and the shepherdess walked through knots of dancing lords and ladies, cutting the path well-trod to the heart of the northern keep.

* * *

She met her lover a moon’s turn after he scattered her sheep and stole her hardwood crook. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat the moon-white stretch of her body. _A maester and a magician_ , she thought to watch him. _How else can he turn my soul to flame with thumb and teeth and tongue_ … True it was: hard and heavy and hot, his very breath misted her skin to ice and fire. He laughed to see the prickles rise on her flesh. A crack of white behind a beard of black.

The world was soft-fallen snow and red-gold leaves drifting from the white-fingered weirwood that stood as sentinel this world of gods and men; his laugh cut it all in shades of silver-flame. There were no men waiting in the shadows of the godswood – only black shadows of ironwoods, pines, oaks and elms. Still, he drew back from their bed of bearskins and stared down at her.

“You wolf,” she breathed, her voice a moan. “Scattered sheep, vanished crook – and now my clothes are gone. What will warm me come winter’s white winds?”

“Cloak and sword and heart I’ll pledge to you,” he whispered, his voice a quiet smoke of desire. “Cloak and sword and heart for just one kiss.”

“I’ll take all three,” she said and sighed to feel the brush of black beard against her throat. “And give one kiss to you, my wolf.”

“Hunger draws the wolf from the wood,” he whispered, his tongue an inferno running the line of her jaw. “But the ardent shepherdess keeps him well-fed.” His white teeth caught at her lip. “One kiss, then, my little lamb.”

So it was: the wolf and the shepherdess soared high as eagles amongst soft-fallen snow and red-gold leaves, cutting the path bare-trod to the heart of the northern heir.

* * *

She met her husband a year after he scattered her sheep, stole her hardwood crook, and took her maidenhead beneath the white-fingered weirwood tree she now stood before. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat the forest floor. _My sweet and my soul_ , she thought to watch him. _The Stark who has my heart_ … True it was: a lord’s son with eyes like the stars. He laughed to feel the tears of joy staining his cheeks. A crack of white behind a beard of black.

The world was wedding-white: soft-fallen snow, icy ironwood trees, silvery sunlight shining the deep black pool to ivory; his laugh cut it all in shades of starlight. A score of men filled the space between bough and bark – lord and lady, brother and sister: grey-eyed gleaming grinning. He ignored them all, took her little hands between his great fingers, and gazed at her in her grey-and-white wool.

“You wolf,” she murmured, her voice sweet as honey. “My flock is fled, my crook is stolen – and now my heart is gone as well. Will he who took it keep it safe?”

“Your heart is mine,” he said, his voice a soft smoke of delight. “From this day until the end of my days.”

“And your heart?” she asked, her fingers circling the velvet of his cheek.

“My heart I will surrender,” he whispered, running his thumb the column of her throat. “For just one single loving kiss.”

So it was: the wolf and the shepherdess made to one beneath the white-fingered weirwood tree, cutting the path well-trod to the heart of the northern forest.

* * *

She met the wolf again a biennium after he scattered her sheep, stole her hardwood crook, took her maidenhead, and married her beneath the white-fingered weirwood tree. Black-haired and big, he was – a shadow sweeping like wingbeat the frost-edged cobblestones of the yard. _My heart and husband_ , she thought to watch him. _Wild as the day I met him amongst a tide of sheep and shouts_ … True it was: a wolf that was stirred to madness by the dark words borne on dark wings. He snarled to read the letter. A crack of white behind a beard of black.

The world was three: soft-fallen snow, silvery sunlight, and stolen sister. His snarl cut it all in shades of bone-white ice. There were no men in the stone archways of keep and castle – all were in the south, that pit of blood and fire beyond the three-forked river. Yet they were three here, too: wolf, shepherdess, and swollen belly beneath a gown of grey-and-white wool. He put his hand on the hard curve of it.

“You wolf,” she whispered, her voice soft as lullaby. “My sheep are dead, my crook is stolen, my heart is taken – and the pup in my belly howls his grief. Who will quiet him if his father rides south to die in ash and flame?”

“He is winter’s son,” he said, his voice a quiet smoke of despair. “He will rule ice and snow should I die in ash and flame.”

“You will die as all men die,” she murmured, holding his spread-fingered hand to the swell of her belly. “First, you will live.” She rose to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. “A thousand kisses I’ll give to the wolf who stays in winter’s wood.”

“A thousand kisses will I take,” he whispered, the madness swept from his eyes as his thumb circled the heavy span of her belly. “I’ll keep us all in winter’s wood.” His lips opened on hers: smoky warmth to bite away the ice of air. “We will live together or not at all, my little lamb.”

So it was: the wolf and the shepherdess swayed together in snow-swept yard till the stars shone within the ink-coloured sky overhead, cradling the path that swelled well-trod between them: babe, boy, son, heir – the heart of the north.

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : title and story inspired by Kate Rusby's beautiful song [The Ardent Shepherdess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOl77PduaPM). I loved the idea of breathing a little love (and life!) into the wolfish Brandon Stark - the enigmatic herdswoman proves his perfect match, I think... Please feel free to leave feedback etc. 🐺


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